


Duo

by BrosleCub12 (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Chocolate, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by chocolate, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock is doing his best, john goes shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘It’s Wednesday night and we are sharing chocolate analogies over files pertaining to the single most dangerous criminal in the world,’ he says, regarding his friend strangely.  John just grins back, enjoying it (enjoying the forgetting, just for a moment).</p><p>‘Yeah. Yeah, we are.’ He raises one shoulder, because why not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duo

**Author's Note:**

> Last month, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a new brand of Galaxy chocolate (distributed by the Mars company) had been released: a Duet bar, two chocolate fingers of different flavours, joined together. Immediately, with one of the the two flavours on sale, I was reminded of Sherlock and John. This will probably be fluffy, a bit corny and very, very random. Could be seen as a follow-up to my previous fic, 'Steady,' but fine as a stand-alone. 
> 
> To give you a better idea of exactly what the boys are talking about, have a gander at the bar in question [here](http://www.thegrocer.co.uk/buying-and-supplying/new-product-development/galaxy-kicks-off-challenger-brand-status-with-duet-bars/520423.article) Anyway, normal rules apply - don't own the show, don't own the bar and there are some spoilers for Series 3. There is also reference to character death, including the loss of the Watson baby. Sadly, this is un-beta'ed, so constructive feedback is welcome.

*

Three months after Mary Morstan dies and just a few days less than that, after Sherlock has taken him back in – helping, John thinks fondly, in his own silent way, helping without words – John starts, slowly, bit by bit, taking on chores again, helping out again – earning his keep at 221B once more.

Really, he feels guilty that it takes him so long to do simple things like washing up or cleaning – but there had been a while there, when he just couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ do anything. He dumped the dishes, half-eaten food, on the sideboard and the plates would end up washed by someone else. Let his laundry pile up; the pile would disappear, twice a week and come back, smooth, fresh and clean. He’s not sure who’s responsible for that – for taking them out of his room and taking them to be washed. He wants to think Mrs Hudson, but with her hip – and he thinks this with a twinge of guilt – she couldn’t get all the way up there, to his room? Could she?

(He can’t remember the last time he asked about her hip. Why doesn’t he ask anymore?)

The only other option is Sherlock and the very real chance that he might have taken all of John’s clothes to whatever dry-cleaner sorted out his coat and suits. Thinking on it, John doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend do laundry in his life.

(He really ought to thank him. He ought to sit down soon and just say, _thanks for this, thanks for all you’re doing. Thanks for looking after me so well)._

Anyway, it’s a Wednesday, late afternoon and he takes it on himself to do the shopping for a change, to get everything that he and Sherlock and Mrs Hudson need. There had been a while when it had all been delivered – either sent by Mycroft (and John’s still not convinced that those drivers who delivered didn’t work for the older Holmes brother) or just ordered by Sherlock and paid (probably) with Mycroft’s card – and, well, that’s – that’s lovely and John never failed to spot that there was always food in the fridge, always a nice something for him, one treat or another to tempt him into eating – but. It’s nice to stretch his legs. Get out of the flat. Sherlock never says anything, bless him, but John can’t help thinking it would be good if the man had an hour or two to himself, considering all he’s done. It’s consideration at the very least; he should remember to give him the space he needs - that they _both_ need - at times.

He wanders up and down the aisle in ASDA – cheaper, bigger and more choice – letting his brain go on autopilot, fetching everything they need. Gives a small, sad half-smile as he reflects that this is one part of domesticity that he never minded, not really.

Bloody hell – he’s been a mess. Probably still is; he’s better than he was, at the start, but you don’t lose your wife and unborn, treasured baby and come bouncing back overnight. Sherlock had left leaflets about grief here and there – in the lounge, in the bathroom by the loo – un-intrusively telling John, in his own way, that it was okay to be sad and angry and mixed-up and guilty and all things besides.

John huffs. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to ground him when he was falling apart.

His eyes fall on the new bars at the end of one of the aisles – a special shelf for something new. John can’t tamper down the curiosity as he goes to have a look; he’ll never say no to a bit of chocolate and he can’t remember the last time he really had any. Nothing’s really appealed.

It’s Galaxy brand, which is good (John feels a pang – Galaxy was a favourite of Mary’s, one of those many, small things they had in common, the two of them sharing a bag of Minstrels one lunchtime) and they’re something called a ‘Duet’; two chocolate fingers of two different flavours, joined together as one. Well then. John will try anything once. He grabs a couple – thinking belatedly of one now, one for later – and then heads to the aisle to pay.

He gets a cab back to Baker Street (feels no guilt in it; he’s more well-off than he was and there is rather a lot to carry) and thinks, with more resigned affection as he looks at all the things he’s brought, of the early days there, back in 2010 (bloody hell; so much can happen in five years) when they were navigating around each other and how, between the early cases, there were everyday necessities always needed and how John somehow became in charge of that. He should have realised, straight from that first day, that looking out for Sherlock meant far more than just covering his back.

To his surprise, Sherlock comes down to help when he sees the taxi pull up and John has no qualms in shoving two of the bags at him with a small smile.

‘Did you get the milk?’ Sherlock asks as they head back up the stairs with the bags and John realises with a jolt that it’s really the first thing his friend has said to him today.

‘Course I got the bloody milk,’ is his rejoinder, because that’s practically their bloody tagline. You’d think that would be more his and Mary’s thing, but no, with him and Mary (when they were happy) it was ‘I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes.’ With him and Sherlock, it’s always, always, been about the milk.

They unload and John rests his leg – hates to admit this, but it’s starting to ache, just a little; perhaps he should start jogging again – eyes the ever-constant files and folders that have become part of their flat, sent on by Mycroft with the highest confidentiality, following that subtle-as-a-brick message that was left by _that man,_ on the day Sherlock Holmes and John Watson nearly said goodbye forever.

(John can’t lie and say he’s sorry that it’s _nearly._  He can’t. He would have been right back where he had started, he thinks sometimes, with that horrifying, plummeting ache. No Mary. No Sherlock. No anything.

The thought hurts, every single time. Every. Single. Time).

*

Usually Mrs Hudson makes them something for dinner, or they have takeaway, or just snack at this or that, anything will do. John knows that Sherlock has been watching him; often he’s been able to take little more than a sandwich and a cup of tea, because the thought of anything else, anything heavier, was enough to make him feel queasy alone.

He ends up doing pasta, just a small amount, for him and Sherlock; heats up some tomato and basil sauce, gets out two bowls. With him and Mary, it was plates and proper meals, the table set for two, the sofa if they were indulgent. But here, they just slump. It’s nice not to have to pretend everything’s okay; to not be expected to pretend.

After dinner, they sit on the sofa together with some of the files, start drawing up connections and links, possible common ground. John knows Sherlock, know he will get frustrated if he can’t form at least twelve conclusions a day, if he can’t form some kind of link and fast. The man puts way too much pressure on himself, but John does understand. They’re basically waiting like sitting ducks, otherwise, waiting for something to happen – and John doesn’t like to think of what that something – _(falling off buildings defusing bombs the shot of a gun)_ will be.

(He wonders if, right now, Sherlock is including him out of pity, nostalgia or necessity, or maybe even a mix of all three).

Somewhere along the way, he remembers the chocolate and feeling as though he’s entitled to a snack and a break, gets it out of the fridge, brings it back to the workspace that used to be the coffee-table. Sherlock barely glances up as he sits back down with a puff, starts pulling off the wrapper. It's caramel and shortcake, apparently and it's like a smoother, posher version of a KitKat. John snaps the two fingers in half, right down the middle.

‘Want some?’ he asks lazily, snapping a small piece off one finger; the one with the caramel inside. Sherlock glances up from the papers, with a distracted air. Looking at him up close makes John worry – Sherlock is noticeably thinner, older, with ever-so-slight bags under his eyes and still trying to fight after already fighting so much already. At the chocolate offering, Sherlock blinks and then accepts the offering.

‘Hm, caramel,’ he notes, inspecting it before popping it in his mouth. ‘Thankyou,’ he says, before glancing at yet another sheet.

‘You’re welcome. You a caramel person, then? Though I’m not surprised…’ He bites off another piece himself, hums a bit at the quite-lovely taste of Galaxy on his tongue. For John, one piece of chocolate is as good as another, he’s a man of simple tastes, but it’s good to take a moment and just enjoy it. And he can't help but feel rather glad that Sherlock is taking some as well. ‘It seems like you.’

‘Oh,’ Sherlock says without looking up from his current folder – then John’s words seem to hit him properly and he glances around at him. ‘How so?’

Instantly – John doesn’t know why – he feels stupid. But, well, it’s. Hm. But Sherlock is looking at him curiously, attention diverted just for a moment and John shrugs.

‘Well… you know.’ Caramel is something that John has always thought to be… something a little stylish among the chocolate flavours. Something different. An acquired taste, for some; he remembers Harry never liked it, used to reject chocolate with caramel in it, scrunch up her face and say no (although she grew out of that, given time). It’s hard to explain.

‘It’s just… it seems like you,’ is what he says finally. ‘You know… all smooth and rich and slightly posh.’ He says it with the slightest tease, a small grin. ‘In fact, I think there was a time when certain, young, very pretty pathologists likened your voice to warm caramel. Well, before she took a liking to a _particular_ Detective Inspector, instead.’

He chances a cautious grin at his friend; Sherlock looks away, but not annoyed, more… sheepish, in the way that he lowers his head and avoids John’s eyes.

‘In a good way,’ John adds, kindly. ‘In a nice way.’

‘Caramel?’ Sherlock repeats, looking as though John has spouted another head; John raises both hands in a _yep, I know_ gesture. ‘That’s a very poor metaphor, John.’

‘I know, I just – ‘

‘You’ve met my parents, I am _not_ that posh.’

‘Okay.’ John shrugs; there's something in Sherlock's tone that's just a little... defensive. John supposes, really, that he _would_ oppose to such a label; Sherlock Holmes is a definition of his own, after all. 

‘Can I have another piece?’ Sherlock asks then and John grins a little, snaps off a piece of the other slab, this one with the shortcake in it and hands it over.

‘Oh, look,’ Sherlock says, very innocently, as John hands it over, ‘it’s you.’

John’s head bolts up at that.

‘It’s… sorry?’

‘Shortcake pieces in the chocolate,’ Sherlock says, with an innocent shrug, ‘It’s mostly solid, mostly full – but there’s just enough shortcake in here, Doctor, to give it that little bit of extra crunch. What’s good for the goose, John.’

He takes a bite, eyes triumphant as he glances at his friend and John wants to roll his eyes, shakes his head. But then, he started it, after all and what does he expect, it _is_ Sherlock.

Still. There’s something oddly nice in knowing that someone – his best friend, in fact – thinks he’s got. Well. _Crunch,_ after everything.

‘Having you around is always useful,’ Sherlock adds then, with a shrug, ‘the unsuspecting idiot looks at you and thinks, _Oh, look at him, isn’t he sweet?_ And then, John – _crunch!’_

He snaps his fingers when he says it and John smirks – okay, that’s a slightly nicer way of putting it – and he busies himself with snapping off some more chocolate.

‘I guess the metaphor does really fit,’ is his slightly prim response, and Sherlock raises a vague eyebrow, amusement in his features. ‘I mean, if you look at this,’ John takes off another piece of caramel and holds it out, the caramel tip drizzling out, welcoming. ‘There’s the outside shell and it’s all smooth and proper and then you break it open – and somewhere under that surface, well. You have. Well. Something soft.’

He says it very, very cautiously, remembers a colourful, detailed wedding plan, a man folding napkins, a rather blasé blog-post _(I swear that my forthcoming wedding has softened Sherlock…)_ A man who brought him back (brought him home) to Baker Street, in that terrible, awful aftermath.

‘Something good,’ he says, not quite looking directly into Sherlock’s face.

A man who forgave his best friend’s wife for shooting him. A man who took on a sentence, a weight on his shoulders, to keep safe that best friend – and that very same wife – for shooting him.

 _Crunch,_ John thinks with a twisted, sad smile. He has definitely got crunch – and sometimes, not all of it good. There’s a lot of that in the hidden parts of him, so it’s really only fair.

But. There’s hope in knowing that Sherlock still believes him to be solid. Solid and dependable.

Sherlock looks at him for a moment and the look is - well. It’s really not unlike the look Sherlock gave him when John asked him to be his best man. Sends John hurtling back almost a year to that day, when Sherlock seemed utterly unaware that _he_ was the one who fulfilled that role in John's life, in every sense - before Sherlock seems to come back to himself.

 ‘It’s Wednesday night and we are sharing chocolate analogies over files pertaining to the single most dangerous criminal in the world,’ he says, regarding his friend strangely.  John just grins back, enjoying it (enjoying the forgetting, just for a moment).

‘Yeah. Yeah, we are.’ He raises one shoulder, because why not?

‘You think I’m caramel and you’re shortcake,’ Sherlock says, as though stating a fact.

‘Mm-hm.’ John spreads his hands; he thinks he’s entitled to act just a little bit mad, just for a moment. You can’t help but feel a little reckless with it all when you’ve lost what he’s lost. Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind though – in fact he’s smirking back now, and it’s that which makes John feel safer about the whole damn thing, about the way he’s acting.

 _‘Short_ of course being the operative word in your case,’ Sherlock notes innocently, and John whacks him on the thigh.

*

They call it a night at two in the morning, once Sherlock has made some progress, sent his findings onto Mycroft. They have an early start ahead of them the next morning; leads to follow up, visits to make. John feels the anticipation of it – he’s ready for sleep but he’s also raring to go. Like the old days, really. 

He cleans up in the kitchen before he turns in;  glances up as Sherlock comes to stand beside him, takes up a dish and tea-towel and starts drying up. They work in companionable silence and John hopes that his friend will grab some sleep, hopes he can persuade him to. 

‘Thankyou for your help,’ Sherlock says, without looking at him and John huffs.

‘It’s the least I can do,’ he says and it feels like saying too much, oddly. Sherlock makes a ‘hm’ sound and focuses on putting the dishes away.

He’s lucky, John realises, looking at him. Lucky that his best friend is enough to keep him going, at the end of the day. It wouldn’t be the same for all men. He dries his hands and steps across to stand at his side.

‘Come here,’ he says softly and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, pulls him in close, rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock is  - well, not alarmed, but stilled – and then his arms are there and curving back around John and John shuts his eyes, grateful, or perhaps relieved. When it comes down to it, Sherlock can give absolutely spectacular hugs if he wants to. 

‘Come on,’ he says after a moment, pulling back; Sherlock’s face is decidedly still, but there’s something behind those tired eyes that’s almost warm. ‘Get yourself to bed.’ Then, remembering that bullet-hole, so close to Sherlock’s heart: ‘Do you need me to check your chest?’

Sherlock shakes his head and John’s hand lingers on his shoulder, before he raises it and squeezes the back of Sherlock’s neck, just briefly.

‘Okay. Right, come on. Bed. I’ll be here.’ 

He _will_ be solid, he vows to himself, as he puts an arm around Sherlock and gently but firmly guides him out of the kitchen and in the direction of his bedroom, determined to see him get some rest even if it kills him. For Sherlock, he’ll be solid, no matter what.

They work better together, after all. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fully aware I'm out of practice writing in this fandom and that there is one specific fic I've written that hasn't been touched for three years, back when I was less uncertain and had more flow. I'm aiming to finish that - sadly, my life has been a rollercoaster of RL problems since the second Hiatus and I've become no stranger to grief and bereavement myself. The Sherlock fandom has been a constant in my life for the last five years and continues to be - for that, I'm grateful (and am getting to a point where I can't help but feel rather nostalgic about the whole thing). Thankyou to you all.


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